


Mourning

by Margje



Category: The Crimson Field
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:41:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2445812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margje/pseuds/Margje
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Colonel Brett thinks of his son, who died too young an too unexpected</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mourning

It's an early Sunday morning, a rainy, gloomy day. There is a service in the church-tent. Some of the walking patients are present and some staff-members are there as well.

It is strange, sitting in a tent, hearing the rain tapping on the canvas, cannons that roar in the distance and to realize that you're in a holy place.

The pastor reads from Psalm 103:

As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more.

After his sermon, the choir sings:

Pie Jesu Domine,

Dona eis requiem*

The thoughts of Colonel Brett wanders to his son. Killed. Dead For what reason? That telegram, a letter afterwards. A quick dead and his son hadn't suffer. But the colonel knows that this may not be the truth.

The singing continues:

Pie Jesu Domine,

Dona eis requiem sempiternam**

It's beautiful and so sad.

The thoughts of the colonel are racing trough his head. Where was he killed? Was it during an attack? In the no-man's land? A sniper? A bombardment?

Did he know that he was dying? Did he know that he never ever would come home? Would he have been afraid? Was he scared? Maybe he cried or yelled. Maybe he panicked. Where were his thoughts in those last minutes? Maybe he died dead in a second, like a bolt from the blue. A merciful, quick death.

Or maybe he quietly slipped away from life, unaware of the fact that this was his end.

Was he alone? Was there someone with him? A comrade, a friend? Someone who could hold his hand, comfort him, say a prayer for him, someone who could close his eyes after he passed away?

He thinks about the life of his son. so young, so full of promisses, dreams, plans, a bright future ahead, it's all gone. He is dead, and the Colonel will never see him again.

The song has ended and after a prayer the choir continues the singing:

In paradisum deducant te angeli;

in tuo adventu suscipiant te martyres***

He will never grow old. He shall never comb his gray hair. He will always remain young. He's gone too soon. Snatched from life on a sunny day

et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Jerusalem.

Chorus angelorum te suscipiat****

And where is he now? What will remain of that young life? Where is his body? Was he dismembered? Did somebody identify him after his death? Where is he buried?

et cum Lazaro, quondam paupere,

aeternam habeas requiem.*****

The service has come to an end. The priest says the blessing.

The death of his son was a wasted dead. But his life wasn't wasted. And maybe that's where he at last shall find his consolation, the memory of his son while he was still alive, a young boy, full of life, dauntless, expectantly, and way too young to die.

Maybe, maybe in the future, after the war and all its crazyness, maybe he will find peace. Peace with the people that surrounds him. Peace with the world. Peace with the death of his son

Peace with himself. Rest in his soul.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

For all the victims of flight MH17. For their families, friends and loved ones. For anyone who mourns.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Translations

* Pious Lord Jesu,  
Give them rest.

** Pious Lord Jesu,  
Give them everlasting rest

*** May angels lead you into paradise; upon your arrival, may the martyrs receive you

**** and lead you to the holy city of Jerusalem. May the ranks of angels receive you,

***** and with Lazarus, once a poor man, may you have eternal rest.


End file.
